onwards and upwards
by Ringwil
Summary: A pebble in a pond can create a great wave. Lily after the exile of Harry Potter – a fanfic based on murkybluematter's The Pureblood Pretense series.


Why couldn't it have been someone else's child ?

It is a selfish thought, one that invades and feeds and grows. Most of the time she pushes it away and goes through the motions of life in half-dazed state. Don't think. Just do.

She makes jokes, folds laundry, bakes cakes even when Sirius no longer wants to and resigns himself to days at the children's ward, or else locked up in his room, and she steadily ignores the now empty chair at the dinner table. Ignores that her house has lost a child. She doesn't know whether it comes from any selfish desire, or whether she does it for James, who is weighed down by grief and shame and frustration.

Far too often, she finds him in the pallor with a glass of Firewhiskey, head in his hands, after a day at work, with reporters badgering him left and right. "Didn't you know?" one of them had once asked Lily, before the trial. His brown eyes were accusing, daring her to contradict. "Didn't you suspect? Surely you must have noticed something. What kind of a mother are you?"

_I did notice,_ she wanted to scream. Dressed there in dark formal robes, with dark bruising circles under her eyes, with a child in custody and a husband teetering on the edge of depression, she never felt more alone. _I did notice, but I noticed all the wrong things at the wrong times. _

Her magic pounded beneath her skin, like it had done during her pregnancy with Harry. Begging to be let loose. She searched the crowd for James, for anyone, but all she could see where reporters in motley clothing, shoving their faces closer, their dicto-quills hovering beside their ears.

It was Sirius who grabbed her by the upper arm and steered her away. Hard-faced, with eyes that glinted like molten silver, he finally looked like the Lord Black all his Pureblood age mates wanted him to be.

"Don't listen to them," he said, mouth drawn tight. "They have no idea what they're talking about."

But they did. She had seen Harry's lights on in the middle of the night, had seen her smiles go distant and a little sad. Had known Harry's demands for self defense training. Remus had inquired about the reason, gently, softly, for pushing too hard would only make her daughter clam up, but no answer had ever been forthcoming.

Lily had tried – she really had. A soft, flowery mirror for her birthday. Clips to put in her hair. Growing out Harry's wild locks, twirling them around her wand until they resembled the hairstyle she herself had favored in her youth.

She had always known Harry would be a tomboy. That her daughter preferred cauldrons over make up, preferred loose-fitting, boyish clothes over feminine cuts. All of that was fine. All of that was normal.

But she had seen Harry and Archie looking more and more like each other with each summer that passed. Sirius chalked it up to Archie being an unconcious Metamorphmagus, but Lily had seen Harry's face light up with every mention of Hogwarts. Had seen the smile on her face, whenever she talked to Draco Malfoy. Had seen the two of them struggling to keep up with each other's curriculum, spending hours upon hours burrowed in books in the library.

_You don't have to be Archie_, she wanted to tell her daughter, _you don't have to be Pureblood_. But she had stayed silent, preferring to watch and observe, for Harry had to carve out her identity for herself. She kept her gifts subtle, her comments unassuming, but she wanted to grab her little girl by the shoulder and shake her. _You're worthy enough, Harriet. Don't turn yourself into Archie. Don't change yourself for anyone, just to be accepted in that world of High Society. _

_You're more than worthy, Harry. _

Self-acceptance could not be forced. Lily had never walked with a foot in two worlds, and though the longing to be accepted and valued was not a strange one, she knew she would never understand her daughter's desire to be more than she was. Not fully, at least. To stand in two worlds and not be accepted in either one. And so, she kept silent and watched.

In hindsight, they should have worried more than they did, should have asked more. Should have seen. What kind of a mother was she?

"She spent two weeks in that hole," James said one night. Neither of them could sleep, so instead they sat by the window, the moonlight edging up their faces, and looked out into the night.

"Wormtail did that to her," he continued. His eyes were flat, and narrowed with anger. The shadows curtained his face into sharpness. "My little girl. And I never even noticed."

"Of course we didn't. They never let us. They took every precaution, James. We're parents, but not gods. We're not all knowing."

"What will happen to her, Lils?" He clenched his hands, digging his nails into the flesh of his palms. "We can call in that life debt of hers – Malfoys, wasn't it? We can break her out, and hide her away. Move to America. And we-"

"James."

He fell silent. Lily had always loved that stubborn look of his, with his angry blue eyes and that unyielding set of his jaw, that promised that everything would be just fine, but this time the sight of it only sparked weariness. She was tired, couldn't remember the last time she had a full meal, and wanted nothing more than forget for a while. Forget what Harry and Archie had done. How it tore up their little family.

"We have another child," she said, staring out into the darkness. "Right now Harry's in custody. There's nothing we can do about that. But Addy is with Alice, and probably wondering where her parents were whisked off to."

A sigh rattled through James' chest. He sounded old, and defeated. Lily had always thought of him as a man who couldn't be broken. Even after he came home from the horrors of being an Auror, from the raids in the Lower Alleys, and the crime scenes full of broken bodies, he still smiled at her. A coral row of teeth, a crease by his eyes – something in her chest would swell at the sight of it. Wanted more.

She hadn't seen him smile since the reveal of Rigel Black, since she found out that she didn't know her daughter as well as she thought she did. Since she found out that her daughter was a liar, and all the interactions of the past four years had been meaningless and hollow. Just lies, and half-truths, and deceptions.

The spark in James' eyes was gone. She wondered if it had faded from hers, as well. She avoided mirrors these days, partially to not be reminded that she needed a shower and needed to brush that mass of hair, all unkempt, but mostly because she didn't want to see herself.

The mother who should have noticed. Should have known. The woman who had written off all the telltales as teenage hijinks_. _Who had had her starving daughter sitting at her table, gobbling up her food as if she hadn't seen it in months, and she had thought Harry had just missed her cooking, all the way up there in America. And at worst, a desire to get back to her cauldron, undoubtedly already simmering in the basement.

Worst were her features. Lily had always liked her hair, but she had loved her green eyes. James always peered into them, as if the sight of them entranced him. Now she could only seen Harry's, greener and glowing in that face that looked like hers, once the Modified Polyjuice had fallen away.

"Can't you speak to Snivel- Snape?" James asked. He looked down at his hands, and inhaled deeply. "He was her m-mentor, right? He knew her well."

"James?"

"Maybe he can help," he continued, as if he hadn't heard her startled tone. "I always thought Archie and Snape were close. I think he actually liked her, Lils."

She had seen Sev at the trial. His face unreadable, his body a rigid statue beside Riddle and Malfoy. He had glanced at her, his eyes pools of ink, but she could barely look at him. There was too much turmoil surrounding him, too much complex emotions and history. She only had eyes for her daughter, looking much too small in the middle of that room, while the chains of the chair clattered around her. She wanted to sweep in and whisk Harry away, hide her away from all these prying eyes.

Harry hadn't looked miserable or scared, even when Amelia Bones announced the sentence. Exile. Her face hadn't changed – not one muscle pulling at her mouth. She did tilt her head, like a curious dog, or a hawk, as if something wasn't right. Hadn't aligned itself with her idea of the future.

Archie had never frightened Lily. She had always known he'd be a troublemaker, as boisterous as he was, but she, unlike her husband, was decidedly aware that Harry was right beside him when things went south. She hadn't expected trouble of this kind of scale, of this magnitude, but she had known teenage years with Archie would be interesting.

Archie never frightened her, but her oldest daughter did.

Harry's face was blank, almost unconcerned. Archie showed his emotions, let them filter over his face, and even when he did blank his face, she was aware of the force of the emotions simmering under the surface. With Harry, there was only a void, under her words. Under her skin. She would never know the depth of her daughter. Would never know what she was thinking.

It frightened her.

"I don't know," she said, and blinked away the moisture burning behind her eyes. "How can he help? There's nothing we can do."

"There must be something. There's always something."

She felt guilty for not believing him, but kept silent, even when James' head drooped onto her shoulder. He needed that hope. That conviction. Lily could skulk around the house all day, owl-order her groceries, let Alice floo over for a drink or two. Her husband was out there, amidst a crowd that looked at him and saw 'blood traitor' first, and 'human' second.

They sat in silence, with Lily stroking his forearm. When the clock struck witching hour, she retired to bed, but when she woke up in the morning, sunlight streaming in through the blind, the space beside her was still empty.

**.**

**.**

**.**

A month after Harry's exile, Lily sees a chrysanthemum. The first of many.

She is standing in line at Flourish and Blotts, gaze roaming the piles of tottering books, and one incessantly fluttering leather bound tome colliding again and again with the ceiling. A lady in a lacy dress stares as she passes, with one hand flying up to press against her sternum, and Lily stifles a sigh.

When she first mentioned going shopping, she was a little startled by the reaction of her husband.

"You're not going alone," James snapped at her from his place at the dinner table. His fork stabbed his cauliflower like it wanted to ram through the porcelain plate. She opened her mouth to snap back, to say that he was behaving like a controlling jerk, but he spoke before she could. "Please, Lily. You haven't been out since Har – since the exile. People aren't exactly forgiving."

The worry for her was etched in his face. At once, all the fight went out of her. She reached out to grab him by the wrist. "I can take care of myself," she said, suppressing a smile as James' expression turned mulish and stubborn. "I can't keep myself coped up in this house. It isn't healthy."

"That's true," Remus piped up, from his end of the table. He was watching them closely, eyes flickering from side to side. "We can't hide from this. We need to confront it."

"They're beasts," James hissed. "They'll tear her apart. Every time I go to work, I can see the judgement in their eyes. I just want to protect her from that."

"You won't." That was Sirius. He avoided his friend's accusing stare, and instead locked his gaze with hers. "The public is at once angry and excited. What happened with Harry and Arch is done, and people have already made up their minds about it. Nobody will do anything, James – she is protected by both the Potter and Black house, and people are more shocked than angry."

"Fine," James muttered and his shoulders hunched inward. "Please, wear your emergency Portkey."

She read the _I can't lose you too_ in his blue irises and her chest swelled with love. This was the man who had never cared for blood purity. Who chose her despite a society telling him not to.

"I promise."

It is nice to be outside. There are stares, and mutters, but Lily can easily pick them out. Nobody was unkind to her. Nobody refused her service. That is more than enough.

She heaves her book a little higher._ Ruffling with Runes _flashes from one serpent-green cover. With Novus Industries still out of business, she now spends most of her days experimenting. It is not exactly how she envisioned her life, but she can't say it isn't exciting.

Something shifts in her bag. At once, she whirls around, palming her wand to ward off an pickpocket. A little girl with a basket of flowers and red hair blinks up at her.

Lily blinks back. "Hello?" she says.

The girl points up to her leather bag. Lily follows her gaze. A red chrysanthemum is sticking out between her flasks and bottles, looking very much out of place.

"You're giving me a flower?" she asks, half-expecting a ploy. The girl just blinks and bobs her head up and down, sending her red hair in its ponytail aquiver. "It's very nice. Thank you. What's your name?"

But the girl is shaking her head. Pointing once again to the bag, she says, "look out for those. They're for friends," and with that, she turns around and bolts out the shop.

After that strange encounter, and time passes, she spots more chrysanthemums. Some people have them pinned on their shirts and dresses, or are wearing them in their hair or on their caps. One morning, when she goes out to Florean Fortescue's Ice Cream Parlour, she finds a chrysanthemum engraved in the wood of a table-leg.

"I don't know where they're coming from," James says, following her gaze, as he sits down with his enormous sundae. Beside him, Sirius is happily devouring his butterbeer-flavored bowl of ice cream. Archie shakes his head at him.

"Me neither," she says and trails a finger over the engraving. "I've been seeing them more and more."

"If it was truly a rage, there would be an article in the Prophet about it," Sirius pipes up around a mouthful of icecream.

James taps his chin. "I think the Quibbler mentioned something. Very small, though – something about it being a symbol."

"I couldn't imagine what for, though," Lily says. She glances to her right, where Archie is sitting twirling his spoon in his hand. His strawberry ice is melting.

She nudges him in the side. "Is it something teenagers do? Is it the new fashion?"

"Or a symbol for_ love_?" Sirius draws out the word. James barks out a laugh, and almost snorts out a stream of ice cream. "Something you and your Hermione can wear to show your unconditional devotion-"

"_No."_ At Archie's vehement tone, he falls silent. "It's a symbol. For Harry."

Something in Lily's chest violent constricts. James pushes his bowl away. "What do you mean?" His stare is accusing, forceful, so Lily kicks his ankle under the table.

Archie ducks his head. "A friend gave her this flower once. Now people associate it with her."

"Who?" James' voice is a mere hiss.

"Muggleborns. Halfbloods. Squibs." Archie's stare is challenging. "Even Purebloods. Not everybody agrees with the Party. The flower is a subtle way of showing that you want change."

The rest of the meal passes in silence. Lily studies her godson out of the corner of her eye. Harry's accomplice. She wonders how lonely he must be - he, too, belongs in both worlds, with Halfblood and Muggleborn friends and a Pureblood heritage. Under the table, she lays a hand on his forearm and ignores his startled jerk. The flower may be a symbol for Harry, for Rigel Black, but she thinks it might be a symbol for Archie too.

An evening in May, a letter arrives. By then, they have warded the premises against most strange owls. She remembers the first nights, after the Rigel Black revelation, when they were bombarded with hate mail. Various pieces of parchment screaming obscenities at their heads, various letters outlining just where they went wrong with their parenting.

"I found this by the front door." James' voice rolls over her shoulder. She turns to him, question in her gaze. Remus, who was bent over her runic array, looks up too.

The letter is unassuming. Tightly rolled up with a piece of twine, and without a seal to break. The parchment is high quality.

_Thank you for your daughter. _

Lily can feel her husband's breath on her face, disturbing the hairs on her head.

_Harriet Potter opened the door for us. We will not let it close. _

There is a revolution brewing. Lily can feel it in her bones. As she meets her husband's startled blue stares, she knows he feels it too.

Change is coming.


End file.
